Never Embraced
by Ice Queen and Hero
Summary: No longer feeling welcome, the Belarusian goes for a walk. After collapsing in front a certain American, she feels a wish may be granted. Rated T for mild language and later suggestive themes. AmeriBela fluff/angst fic. Human names used.
1. Fantasy

Hello there. I seem to have proven to myself that it is physically possible to beat a dead muse back to life, with a lot of help from a friend. Thank god for inspiration and his poems.

The poem inspired this ficcy (which should be multiple chapters, don't expect fast updates) is Never Embraced. Please, look that up on deviantART, the author is MasterChief37. Several of his poems have inspired other stories I will later write.

This a purely plot+fluff Alfie/Nati fic. I'm not going to write smut, but if the story comes to it, it will be implied, or I'll be annoying and skip to the next morning/a few hours later.

Because I really am not good at smut.

Anyways, enough of my babbling.

Disclaimer: Why do I need one? This is a fanfiction site, no? Shouldn't it be implied that I don't own anything if it's fan_fiction_? Ya know, not canon?

* * *

><p>Restless wandering, small sniffling, curious whimpers. Where was she going? What was the point of it all? It seemed her brother's refusal her, time and again, had finally broken her. She couldn't last much longer on her own. Never once would she admit it aloud, but she was in desperate need of someone reliable. Not just her sister. Not just the Lithuanian boy who fancied her. She needed someone who wasn't on her side out of pity.<p>

She needed someone to be her hero.

Such a large dream filled her mind, giving her the first genuine experience of giddiness in years. Yes, a hero. Someone to save her, care for her, help her through her poor health. The mere thought of it lifted her spirits, warming her against the winter's biting cold. A small smile formed on her lips, though it was far from touching her eyes. The feelings brought with the fantasy died quickly, but she let the smile stay. Why shouldn't she? Let the world assume she was strong. That she could stand on her own. That she wasn't about to collapse, mumbling wishes of a lover's warm embrace.

Yes. Let the world assume.

* * *

><p>The shuffling feet crunched on snow, low cursing interrupted with sneezes and shivers. Damn. Why were European winters so brutal?<p>

Why was he even _in_ Europe?

Wait. That's right. The Commie asked him over. Promised to pick him up at the airport. Ha! Like he should have trusted him. If the American weren't so damn blind to the rest of the world's weather, he would have arranged a limousine or something. With snow chains, of course. And a damn heater.

"G-god damn that C-c-c-c-c dammit!" Huddling in on himself, he cursed his idiocy again. His jacket was rated for a Texan winter, not a Russian one. "Sh-shoulda as-sss-sked Mattie f-fer his c-coat."

Keeping his eyes fixed to the ground, his only entertainment as he slowly ambled down the deserted road, he nearly jumped when he collided with another person. Jesus, who would be out here in the middle of a damn blizzard? Why was _he_ out- wait, Commie. Right.

Stuttering out apologies and offers of help, the American bent down to where the person had fallen. Man, this chick was crazy. He was freezing his spoiled behind off with actual winter gear, but there she was, taking a nap in the snow, wearing only an English maid dress.

Why would someone wear a dress like that if they weren't even in England?

Poking the unconscious girl, he looked around to see if there was a way to get her help. It couldn't be healthy to sleep in frozen stuff, right? Of course, he wasn't a doctor or anything. Maybe this is how they bathed in this country or something. Kinda weird, though.

"H-hey, girl, you ok-kay?" he asked, shaking her shoulder. His only answer was a mumble, something he couldn't discern.

Sighing, he picked the girl up, surprised that he could. Well, yeah, he was strong and all, being a man, but he had recently…'let' his body get a tad out of shape. The girl herself was super-light, but he just tacked it on to how his muscles must make everything seem they weighed so little, because he was strong. Yep. That was it. That was _totally_ the reason why she seemed to be more doll-like than human.

Looking at her as he walked along, he noticed she looked oddly familiar. Kinda had an eerie air about her, and he swore he felt a knife attached to her leg- not that he was going to check, he was a gentleman after all- but he felt he knew her from somewhere. _Probably was a tourist at D.C._, he thought, _Or like a maid or something to the Commie_.

But if she were a maid, why was she ten miles from the Commie's house? Didn't servants like live in the palace or something? Or was he remembering a different country's custom?

Oh well. He guessed he could ask her later, if she woke up. She looked rather peaceful though. He hoped she stayed that way when she was awake. Mattie did, why shouldn't she?

Stopping his pace, he looked about._ Did the Commie change his language?_ He wondered stupidly. The sign he was staring at was covered in scratches, painted over so it gave the appearance of letters. Not a single shape looked at all similar to a Cyrillic letter.

Not that he figured that out. Finding another sign above a door- reading what he assumed was the word Inn- he made his way over there, moving with slight difficulty. Was it physically possible for muscles to freeze while still inside your body?

Smiling warmly at the half-asleep lady behind the counter, he paid for the room, thinking it outrageous before remembering the value of the Russian ruble.

How does the Commie's country still have power, let alone an economy.


	2. White Lie

The story will follow the theme of my friend's poem, each chapter influenced by a couple of lines in the poem. All it takes is for me to write it out.

Oh, and the chapter names have some vague relation to the poem and the chapter itself. Kinda like a game in my mind, wondering if anyone can find the reason a chapter would be named such.

Happy reading (and reviewing, I find those very welcome).

* * *

><p>Standing at the side of the bed, the American peered curiously at the girl. He supposed any other guy would have stripped her by now, but he was above that. He considered it deeply insulting to one's dignity to do such a thing. But upon closer inspection of the girl, the American could easily see why someone wouldn't pay attention to his dignity. She really was pretty. Graceful, even. Well, as graceful as one could look when strewn haphazardly across a bed with a tangled mess of hair pointing everywhere.<p>

Poking her face innocently, he smirked at her groggy attempt to wave him away. Ah, sleepy girls are so cute.

"Miss?" he asked, poking her more. "Are you feeling better?"

Rolling over, she simply glared at him silently.

"Well?"

"Who are you?" she asked after a long pause.

Bowing theatrically, he smiled up at her. "I'm Alfred Jones, America! I'm the hero!" Striking his heroic pose, he missed her widening eyes and soft chuckle.

Collecting herself, she nodded. "I am Natalya Arlovskaya, Belarus."

"Belarus! That's where I know you. You're the Commie's sis, right? The obsessed one?"

She smirked. "I guess so."

"Well, great! You know why he didn't pick me up from the airport, right? Or did he send you to pick me up? Kinda weird to send his own sis in such weird clothes. I mean, come on, the winter here is just brr!"

Blinking at his rambling, she straightened up. "Who said you were in Russia?"

"My plane ticket."

"Your plane ticket is lying."

"Whaaa?"

"Welcome to Minsk," she said, turning from him to examine the room.

"But I'm supposed to be in Russia! The Commie said it was important! Of course nothing's important enough for me to come in this crappy weather but seriously!" He reached for her, continuing his rant. "Besides, I have Russian money! What Belarusian motel would take Russian money?"

"Most of them, I expect." Moving away from his grasp, she looked around for food. "That important meeting of yours was probably a game of Russian Roulette. Brother hates you, you know."

Her nose twitched a bit when Alfred groaned. Sitting roughly on the other bed, he took a half-frozen sandwich out of his jacket. It smelled positively repulsive, but he didn't seem to mind if the way he inhaled it was any indication.

"Still going to Russia."

"I advise against it."

"Like I would trust you."

"You would trust my brother?"

He blinked at her. "Aren't you supposed to jump at the chance of taking me to see your brother?"

"Where do you think I was walking from when I collapsed?"

He quieted, thinking. An unusual act for him, but he didn't feel the urge to bother her with his inner monologue like he did with Arthur.

"So you walked from Moscow… To Minsk. In a blizzard. Wearing high-heeled shoes and a dress. Are you insane?"

"Yes."

His jaw almost dropped at her nonchalant tone. Suddenly feeling awkward, he played with the end of his jacket. As soon as he felt enough time had passed, he started watching her, attempting something along the lines of scrutiny. She poked about the kitchen area, finding very little in the way of actual food, though he gulped as she used a knife hidden under her hair to pry the cupboards open. A small part of him wished she had used the one at her leg- the one he only thought was there- while the majority of his mind was thanking every higher power that she wasn't using the weapon on him. He felt sorry for the wood, though.

She started cursing under her breath when she found the only food in the room was either dust or being digested in the stupid American's stomach.

"So, why did you walk home in the snow?"

Her thoughts of ordering the American to get her food drifted away from her mind in the presence of his question. What concern was it to him?

"I grew tired of the Baltic blathering and decided I missed my home."

He nodded, pleased with that answer, it seemed. Idly, he wondered why Ivan would let his own sister outside in the cold, wearing a thin dress and stockings. Certainly the Russian knew better? He loved her, as a sister at least, that much was obvious, but wouldn't he provide her with transport, or at least accompany her on her trek? The Commie had to have enough feeling for that, at least. Right?

"Sooo…" Alfred said, looking about the room. "What are we gonna do. Cause I got to get to Russia."

"You are an idiot," she said, turning slightly to glance at him.

"I get that a lot," he murmured, wondering why this time the insult stung a little.

"There will be no transport out of the city. Not by bus, train, or plane."

"Heh, that rhymed."

"Such a child," she sighed, moving to the door. "I will offer a room at my house. You may accept it if you wish."

Following her out the door like a loyal puppy, he instantly wished he stayed inside.

"F-f-f-frick it's cold out here," he stuttered.

"It is not that bad." Looking her over, he noticed how she didn't even flinch when snow blew into her eyes, or when her hair whipped her face. She didn't try to keep herself warm, she simply walked along, like the frozen ground was a spring meadow.

Geez, these Soviet types were scary.


	3. A Siren's Voice

I'm waiting to see how long this muse lasts. Of course, I'll be losing internet in a few days, so it might not matter.

But, does anyone want to be my beta reader~? I'm a bit OCD about mistakes in my writing and I just keep finding them. If there's someone out there willing to take the offer, it would much appreciated~!

Anyways, enjoy the chapter ( ^ w^)/

* * *

><p>Alfred had honestly expected a little more grandeur when he heard they were going back to her place. Of course, her house wasn't <em>bad<em>, it just seemed lacking compared to the shininess of his White House or the strength in her brother's Moscow Kremlin. It seemed to be his country's standard for expensive living. Three story building, nice decoration, most likely open and airy. It looked a bit tatty, though he could tell great effort was put into it to keep it as close to pristine as possible.

Of course, that was just the outside.

Inside was much shinier. Well, would be if it wasn't covered in a layer of dust. No wonder she said she missed her home; she hadn't lived in it for years. Ornate mantelpieces, elaborate ceiling designs, flashy wall art. It reminded him strongly of one of her brother's palaces, where you were afraid to walk lest you mess up the priceless rug. Not that several of his country's citizens didn't have homes like that, though he rarely visited them.

Stopping just inside of the locked door, the two countries stood in silence. Alfred shivered some more- the heat wasn't kept as high when the mistress of the house was away- and stared at her, wondering what she was up to.

No longer than a minute had passed before two servants rushed in from different directions, bowing fervently and spewing welcome home's and we'll have tea prepared soon's. After receiving a slight nod from Natalya, they ran off, quick to make sure she didn't feel the need to stab something.

They knew all too well how sharp her knives were.

Motioning for the American to follow her, she walked through the hallways, taking note of things that need to be done before she felt comfortable in her own house again. How could her servants keep the place covered in so much filth? She paid them, housed them, fed them, and they couldn't keep the mansion tidy. Punishment was in order, no doubt.

Smiling, though it could more easily be called a grimace, she planned the perfect form of discipline. Ah, yes, a very welcome home indeed.

The heater kicked on suddenly, making the American jump and then stick his hands in his pockets, looking away as he blushed a bit. She snickered; the American wasn't as heroic as he thought. Well, there goes her plan of making a reliable friend of him. Though she didn't know how she was going to do that in the first place.

The Belarusian girl never surrounded herself with her own friends. She merely infiltrated her brother's circle, discerning which ones she needed to kill and which ones just bothered her. She hated all of them with a passion, as they held her brother's attention more so than her. In retrospect, it didn't matter. Natalya had given up on persuading her brother to be hers forever. It was obvious that she wouldn't get anywhere, nor was her presence particularly smiled upon by anyone other than Toris.

God, she hated Toris.

The American silently wandered along, his eyes trailing everywhere as his host led him to who knows where. He took in the walls, the angle of the ceiling, the lighting, and decided it wasn't a bad place. More than once his eyes wandered to his host's backside, until he caught himself and looked away again. Geez, some gentleman he was. If he were ever caught staring at a girl's assets, his whole reputation would go down. He'd be no better than that perverted French dude.

That was, like, the last thing he needed.

It seemed to be forever until they finally stopped walking, the room they had entered akin to a den.

"Ohoho. A real working fireplace! You don't sit in front of these everyday," Alfred laughed, his voice holding a bit of wonder.

"Actually, I do," his host said dryly.

"Huh. You know deforestation is bad for the environment. You're killing animals by burning wood!"

"Like your own country is so earth-conscious? Who recently had an oil spill, _again_? Who is the leader in the use of plastic? Of fuel? The largest producer of methane gas? If you would care to notice, my country still has the majority of its forests. Do not think your consumption can be written off while mine cannot."

He blinked, laughing nervously. "Uh, sorry, didn't know… Yeah. Sorry about that."

She huffed, slightly irritated. It wasn't in her nature to be so brash. It left her feeling odd, like she had committed a _faux pas_ but wasn't around anyone who cared.

The servants had finally tracked after a while, setting down tea and some snacks, bowing when dismissed with new orders. Prepare dinner, ready a guest room, and dust the mansion.

The last order may have been accompanied with a few expletives.

Alfred fumbled nervously with the end of his jacket again, noting how much fear the servants had of their mistress. She didn't seem that scary. Except with her knife. That was scary. Like, pee your pants scary. But she didn't threaten them with it like her brother might have; she simply stared at them coldly. Her eyes were a beautiful color of blue, her hair a darker blonde than his own, and was easily towered over by both her servants and himself.

Why would someone fear her?

Natalya looked at her guest, surprised that he didn't reach for the hot tea and had settled for staring at her instead. It unnerved her, his unblinking gaze. She mentally scoffed at anyone who thought her the creepiest person alive.

"Well, it is late. Your dinner will be brought to you in your room." Upon uttering her low order, a servant obediently came in, bowed, and led the American away.

Walking off in the direction of her room, declining her own food, she settled into her private desk. Opening one of the drawers rather ungracefully, she noted to have it oiled tomorrow, before her servants' punishment.

Removing a small notebook from within, she allowed herself a small smile. A gift from her brother when she was a child, filled with all the childhood songs she adored singing. Memories of holidays and snow days spent singing to her elder brother and sister fluttered back, bringing a familiar sting to her eyes. She missed those days, when they were a happy family and the world wasn't filled with so much hate.

She sniffled a bit, dabbing at her eyes with a sleeve.

Situating herself, she quietly sung the first few songs to herself, getting progressively louder as the night carried on. Stopping around midnight, she collapsed on her bed, wondering why it seemed every other country had someone to love them. Care for them. It just wasn't fair.

A floor below, the American was silent, listening in awe as the beautiful voice broke down to tears.


	4. Unable to Succeed

Hi.

Nothing really interesting to say, besides that I felt too ill yesterday to write an update.

Food comas, not as good as you'd think.

Also, I'm less literal with the connection to the poem this time. I think. Eheh.

Happy reading.

* * *

><p>The servants awoke their guest early the next morning, much to his irritation. When prodded with questions about their mistress's singing, they clammed up, mumbling out the schedule to be expected of the day. His portion of it started with a quiet breakfast in the dining room, accompanied with his lovely host.<p>

Not a bad way to start the day. Or so he thought.

He ended up sitting at an empty table for two hours, shifting his weight in an awkward silence as the servants simply stood there, staring at the floor. Wasn't he supposed to be fed or something? The gurgling of his stomach was far from quiet; the servants _had_ to know they were keeping a guest hungry. But, instead of commenting, they stood, keeping as low a profile as possible until their lady felt like presenting herself.

When that moment came, it didn't disappoint.

She had changed from the light dress of early to a different, more elaborate gown. The material was thick but…accentuating. Long sleeves, turtleneck, a long skirt with most likely thick stockings beneath. Yep. It had the American hungry again, but for something sweeter. And curvier.

Blinking at the odd looks she was getting from her guest, Natalya gestured for the food to be brought out. She was hardly hungry, but she assumed she had waited long enough to be easily considered rude. Might as well attempt to patch that mistake by joining him with brunch, even if she despised apologies.

"So, um…" Alfred began, clearing his throat a bit.

Nati looked up. Someone was starting a conversation with her? Blinking again, she stilled her hand.

"What do ya do for fun around here?" He had been wondering what other countries did on the side for a long time, but, in this case, he was more concerned about getting into that malicious head of hers. Could be useful information. For, you know, politics and stuff. Yep.

Natalya looked down, raised to not meet eye contact when talking about herself. "I rule the country as I see fit. Like any other nation should."

"I said for fun, not for your boring job."

"I see it as fun."

Alfred pressed the fork to his mouth childishly. "Yeah, but that isn't fun. That's why I described it as boring. Ya know, the opposite of fun?"

"If you want an answer you agree with, why not share what you do with your free time."

"Okay!" he said, beaming. "Well, I like football and baseball and NASCAR, and I like going to bars and hanging with Mattie, and then bugging the hell out of the British hick, playing some video games with Japan, traveling I guess, and maybe some lacrosse and basketball, hockey's fun too, so is tennis, and then there's soccer- sissy sport- and most importantly I like being the hero!"

Natalya's mouth fell open as she stared, amazed, at the American.

"So, what do you like to do?"

"I, uh, er…" She fooled around with her napkin for a little bit. "I spend time with brother and sister."

"That sounds lame."

"Not all of us are flamboyant Americans."

"Nah, the rest of the world just isn't as awesome as me. I mean, how could they? They aren't the hero!" He slapped the table and pointed upwards, as if there was something in the air that would explain his lunacy.

Natalya scoffed. "You are such a child. I can see why brother harbors such hate for you."

"Hey, not my fault the Commie's evil."

She laughed once. "No, I suppose not. I suppose he has always been a coldhearted bastard, right? Foolish."

Alfred blinked. Had he touched a nerve? He hated to admit it, but Mattie was right. He _did_ need to start thinking instead of just vomiting out words. Shrinking back into his seat, he stared fixedly at his plate, trying to ignore the awkwardness that had quickly filled the room.

"So, uh, sor-"

"It is hardly your fault. Brother and I are no longer on speaking terms. Do not think anything of it."

"Yeah, sure. Okay," he mumbled, still feeling out of place.

He watched as she turned to the servants.

"You two meet me downstairs after you have finished with your chores."

Bowing, they murmured simultaneously, "Yes, my lady."

Staring, the American wondered what she had planned. "Didn't I ask you what you did in your free time?"

"Yes. And I answered."

"Then what are you doing with your servants?"

"Punishing them. Something I do not do in my 'free time.' It is a routine."

"To torture them the day after you return?"

"Yes. They keep the place in such disrepair, I must make sure they are aware of their mistakes."

"Geez, aren't you a little Commie-to-be. I'm sur-"

Alfred was interrupted when a butter knife implanted itself in the wood beside his head.

Looking at the projectile and back to his host, he was surprised he didn't start trembling in his seat. Her eyes had narrowed to slits, the glare cold and calculating. Her hand was still uplifted; it remained in the position it had effortlessly launched the weapon with. The way her other hand balled up into a fist told him that she had missed.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if it was the tea he spilled or something else that made his lap wet and sticky.

"I am a democratic country, Alfred. Do not think me a copy of my brother."

He nodded feverishly as she excused herself to leave.

Good _lord_, she was frightening!


	5. Light the Dark

I am _not_ a healthy individual.

Anyways.

Yeah.

Writing in a notebook while traveling in a moving van going sixty miles an hour across a desert with no A/C is not recommended for normal people. Highly recommended for masochists.

Happy reading.

* * *

><p>After the disastrous start to the day, the American decided he'd spend the rest of the day avoiding contact with all things living. He assumed his plan was simple; it was such a large house, the possibility of running into a skittish servant or the insane asylum escapee had to be next to none.<p>

Unfortunately, that was much easier said than done.

Dodging into yet another corridor, he quickly slid into an unlocked room. Panting, he cursed what he believed was rotten luck. It was like the servant was following him with how many times he had to avoid being noticed. Pressed against the door, he waited until the sound of teeth chattering faded. With utmost care, he slipped out of his hiding spot, intent on finding a dark forgotten corner of the house to stay for the day.

Some time later in his search, he started humming the Mission Impossible theme until something dawned on him.

"Holy shit! I'm _totally_ like James Bond or something!"

With a small squeak, he clamped a hand over his mouth. Not bothering to wait a see if someone heard his exclamation, he booked it, ending in a bathroom in some obscure portion of the mansion.

Checking his reflection in the mirror, he lightly beat his head with a fist.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered in time with the hits.

"Only a little, sir."

"HOW DID YOU FIND ME?" Alfred screeched, scurrying to the wall farthest from the voice.

"The walls are exceptionally thin, sir, and you breathe rather loudly."

"Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahahahahahaha," the American laughed, still scared witless.

"There is little threat sir. My lady worked off her rage during our punishment. She actually requests you join her for dinner."

"Dinner. Yeah. Sound's good. Eheh."

"Great! It will be served in fifteen minutes."

Sighing as he heard the servant's feet move away, he tentatively crawled away from his perceived safety of the wall.

"Wait… Why are there no lights on?"

The hallway was pitch black, as opposed to the dim lighting given off by barely-working light fixtures. Feeling his way back to the dining hall, he found that at night torches lit the more active corridors. This puzzled him, wasn't using electricity more effective than using rudimentary branch-lightbulbs?

Sitting at the table again, he looked over the new ambience of the room.

It was so much scarier now, the flickering of the torches sending the shadows into a dance. Several times it looked like a shadow lurker or something was about to pop out and scare the living daylights out of him. He wasn't even provided with company this time- the servants were too busy making sure the meal was perfect, too scared to let their mistress go to sleep angry.

"Sooo…" Alfred said, speaking to no one. "How about that blizzard? I sure could go for one about now. Or maybe a McFlurry, with a quarter pounder. Dr. Pepper sounds good too, and a large fry. I wonder if there's a good McD's in Moscow."

"You even talk to yourself like an idiot."

Squeaking again, he jumped in his seat, turning to find his ever-indifferent host.

"Yeah… I get that a lot."

"I know."

On cue, the food was brought out, and the pair ate in a reasonable silence. Natalya actually ate this time, having worked up an appetite releasing her anger on the servants. She was slightly surprised to still see them working- she swore she broke one of their hands. Shrugging to herself, she carefully ate small bites, trying to ignore the large and messy chunks of food her guest was shoveling to his mouth.

Did he have to make _everything_ positively revolting?

Idly, she looked him over. Smaller than Ivan, larger than the Asian countries he dealt so much with. Larger than Arthur too, by a bit. Her assessment couldn't be completed easily as he still wore his bulky winter jacket, but she inferred that the large clothing was only to provide added coverage, instead of hiding unsightly man bulges.

The thought made her snicker, earning her a curious glance from the American.

"So, Natalya, when am I getting to Russia?"

She blinked. That was the first time her name had been called by a non-Russian accent. Looking up, she pondered if it suited her tastes. It was different, that was for sure, and it didn't sound like it was laced with venom like her brother's accent. It was all right, she decided, nibbling on the tip of her fork.

"Well?"

Right, he had a question.

"A week, at the very least. By now, the engine block in every automobile has frozen, including my own."

"Don't you have a garage or something?"

"I had a fire in the summer. It was the source. With no extra funds, there is no car shelter."

"Garage."

"Whatever."

"And there's no way to leave the city?"

"Not unless you want to walk."

"Bike?"

"Frozen."

"Dammit," he muttered, poking at his food solemnly. He had hoped to leave in a couple days. But no, Soviet winters had to be more sadistic than the rest.

"You may be able to find a hotel, if you do not wish to stay." _Take the suggestion_, Natalya thought. _The last thing I need to do is kill an American_.

"Noooooo thank you," Alfred said, waving his hands. "I'm not going anywhere with all that snow around. I'd have to climb out the second story window!"

"It was merely a suggestion." _God damn it._

"Yep. That's why I'm stayin' here. Where it's moderately warm. Oh yeah." He point over his shoulder to a torch. "What the hell is with the creepy castle dungeon vibe going on?"

"The generator has a large tendency to fail and break in blizzards. The torches are for light and heat. My servants are lighting a fire in your room, currently, so it will be heated when you go to sleep."

"Awesome. Livin' in colonial times. Good memories."

"Colonial…?" Natalya asked, stumped.

"Yeah. You know, seventeen, eighteen hundreds'? The greatest time _ever _because the most awesome country in the world was growing up? Not like it didn't have some rough patches here and there, but I liked my childhood."

"…Seventeen hundreds?"

"What, surely you were growing up with your brother then."

"I have no memories prior to nineteen ninety-one. The year I was forced away from the Soviet and became my own country."

"Wow, really? Cool." His tone stated that he was disinterested, but he was eyeing his host carefully. He didn't need to cross over some hidden line and detonate a half-buried bomb. He already had enough people doing that; it didn't need to happen to him.

"I suppose."

"So, is the reason you love your brother and stuff because he like raised you and taught you to be by yourself?"

"Coupled with his gifts of technology, yes."

"Hm. Sounds nice. Wish Arthur did some of that stuff for me."

"I figure you were very capable fending for yourself on virtually untouched land. My land has never been as fertile as others, and with Sister's accident with a reactor a few years back, there has been some…scarring."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess." Looking down, he shut up, making sure he didn't anger her by prying.

"I assume you are finished?"

"Huh?"

"With your food."

"Sure, yeah."

Scooting his chair back, Alfred was about to stand when another butter knife landed in the wood. Looking back, he saw a genuine smile spread across his host's face as he shivered.

"What was that one for!"

"It was fun last time."

Standing gracefully, she walked out, not bothering with formal excuses.


	6. Say Goodbye

Er. Yeah. Nothing new to report. I think. So yeah.

Happy reading.

* * *

><p>The next day the American was awoken by the frantic and sputtering servants.<p>

"S-s-s-s-sir, you m-must come with us-s," one managed.

"…Why?"

"J-just come," the other said, grabbing his wrist. Pulling him out the door and down into the basement, they answered every single one of his questions with a half-whimpered, "Not safe".

"Hey!" Alfred exclaimed. "Stop that!"

They ignored his protest, continuing to shove him into a little stone cubbyhole, covered in cobwebs and decades of dust. He sneezed a couple times, only to be loudly shushed by the servants. Fidgeting, he decided to at least find a comfortable spot if he was suddenly going to be kept prisoner or something.

Trying yet another time, he asked, "Why the heck am I here?"

The servants looked to each other.

"It is no secret that you must stay here," one began. "But please, police yourself, or you'll be in great danger."

The other nodded, pleased with the cryptic response, and yanked his colleague's arm. They scurried off, going to check on their mistress.

Alfred sighed, looking about the cramped space for something of interest. There were a couple of spiders on him- daddy long legs by the look of them- that he flicked off. A couple of woodchips on the ground entertained him for a bit, but only for a very, very little bit.

He had just gotten accustomed to the oppressive silence when the door to the basement was kicked open. A coarse voice yelled something in Russian, followed up with footsteps and a click.

The American recognized the sound.

Shifting, he peered around a rotted plank of wood to see the standard green of military pants. The man walked carefully, the barrel of his rifle sweeping about the room. The attached flashlight flooded a corner, dancing across bricks and paneling until it paused at Alfred's hiding spot. It panned away quickly, responding to the sharp but feminine order in Belarusian.

"What the _hell_ do you think you are doing?"

The man stiffened, turning to completely face the door- and away from the American.

"This is my house, and you think you have the right to bring a firearm in it?" Natalya hissed.

"So sorry," the man said, heavily accented but unfeeling. "Orders are orders."

"In my house, _everything_ follows my orders. And my orders only."

"If there is a problem, I am sure there will be a resolution."

Nati sneered, looking over her shoulder at the newcomer.

"A problem, in a house ruled and managed by _myself_, is only resolved by strict punishment and torture." She leveled a glare at the heavily accented man. "If you do not plan on disciplinary action, I will be more than happy to accommodate."

The obviously higher-ranking man came closer to Natalya, resting a hand on her shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but his first words were replaced by rather high-pitched wail. His arm and hand were twisted, the limb tearing away from the rest of the body and the rather meaty digits scrunching together, fracturing and dislocating.

Nati held his arm taut, unrelenting in her discipline as the man screamed and begged to be released.

"Like I said, I will be more than happy to punish the idiots that believe they can enter my house uninvited and unannounced."

"Your brother told us to come!" the man cried, attempting and failing to pull free. "He wanted us to take you back to Moscow!"

"Liars get harsher punishment. Maybe even death…"

"I am not lying! Ivan told us! Ivan Braginski!"

"It is Russia. There are a great many people named identical to my brother."

As they conversed, the rifled officer came up next to her, keeping the barrel trained on her torso.

"I will take you to him, yes?"

The rifled man trembled a bit, recoiling from yet another cold glare.

Silently, she released the whining officer, straightening out her clothing before leaving the room. The men followed behind her rather slowly, not wanting to be near should she feel the need for a punching bag.

Alfred sat, dumbfounded, as they left. He had watched the exchange fearfully, thinking she might give up his location or something. Had she actually defended him from whoever those men were?

Wait. He was in the country of Belarus.

No secret. Police himself?

The leader of Belarus was taken by the Secret Police? By her very own _Soviet loyalist army_?

Alfred sagged where he sat, his head thunking against the wall. His mind was going in circles, wondering how he'd get the personification of a country away from her own sympathizers. He was so far gone in his rescue plan that he didn't notice the servants' attempt to drag him out of his hole in the wall.


	7. No Savior

Tch. Hope you guys don't think this is a happy fic.

I would hate for you to be so deluded w

Happy reading~

* * *

><p>The American paced quickly about the room, stopping once in his cycle to glance at a map resting on the dining table. Making a noise in the back of his throat, he settled back into the rhythm of his walk, too focused on thinking to actually think of anything.<p>

After half an hour, one of the servants came in to check on him. With a sigh, Alfred smacked his fist against the table, causing the servant to jump and skitter away without saying a thing.

The rest of the day went by, the American pacing and the servants far out of the way.

It wasn't until dinner was served that one of them spoke up.

"S-sir, you really can not do anything… She isn't i-in much danger, in all honesty…"

"YES SHE IS," he belted out. Pausing, he lowered his voice to a reasonable volume. "Uh, I mean, you can't be sure or anything. I have to go see, make certain she gets home safe and stuff…"

The servants looked at each other. "B-but there is a UN meeting in a few days, yes? They will have her present…"

Alfred blinked. She went to those meetings? And he never saw her? Geez, who else went that he never noticed ever? Gandhi?

"He might have attended one…"

"YOU READ MINDS?"

"No. You mumble when you think."

"…Oh."

Bowing, the two ushered him out of the room and up the stairs, forcefully ending his worrying for the moment.

They loudly cleared the table, the plates and glasses clinking together. The noise echoed into the American's room, making it near impossible for him to sleep. When the dishware could no longer provide an annoyance, their conversation became an unusual volume, the topic about anything and everything that wasn't important. From time to time a servant would trip, spilling unbreakable items across the floor, and would accidentally bang them together when he picked them up. Alfred huffed, wondering if they were making such a ruckus because they could get away with it.

In truth, the reason why they were always silent was because their mistress proved quite easy to distract. Loud noises always broke her concentration, which unfortunately made their punishment at the forefront of her mind. With her attention focused elsewhere for so long, she typically forgot what she had been doing in the first place, setting off her mood near-instantaneously.

The servants were merely hoping the same was the case with their current guest- only slightly less painful.

Tired to no end of the chaos coming from the lower levels, the American fell backwards onto the plush but still dusty bed, rubbing his temples in exasperation. During a small lull in the clanking and the clinking, he decided the hour was too late to get any further planning in, thus ended up settling in the musty blanket to spend yet another night.

Early the next morning, the servants were up to the same game as the night before. Clattering ungracefully around in the kitchen, they intentionally made it so the last thing their guest could focus on was hearing himself think. One servant dropped a pot, too slow in picking it up when the other servant- carrying numerous utensils- tripped over it, spilling silverware and cooking ware across the floor. Both servants chided each other, quick to pick everything up and let them bang as much as possible as they were set in their proper place.

Halfway through breakfast, Alfred gave up.

"Okay, that's it! The hell is wrong with the both of you! It's like- hey, what're your names, anyway?"

"Artern."

"Alexei."

Alfred blinked. "Okay…"

"We are not known for creative names," Alexei supplied.

"Yeah, I can see that," the American muttered.

"Anyway, the storm looks like it may clear up sometime soon, most likely in time for a flight to the UN meeting," Artern yelled from down a hall.

Alfred rubbed his ears. "I'm starting to hate this country."

"This country doesn't hold much kindness to America, either."

"So I've noticed," Alfred said, drolly.

Alexei handed a slip of paper to the American before walking off to complete various noise polluting tasks.

"Is this…a list of chores?" Alfred asked.

"Yes. As Miss Natalya's presence is lacking, we have more chores to do. It seemed only fair to enlist our guest in aid of a few of them," Ardern said.

"…These are all in Nati's room."

"No, only her level of the house."

"Still don't get why one person gets an entire floor to herself."

"She does _own_ this house, and she is royalty. Your own nation is known for such acts of excessiveness."

"Yeah, yeah," Alfred muttered, getting up to do his work. The servants smiled, pleased that they shanghaied him into their ranks. With so much work piled on his plate, it'd be impossible to think of anything but collapsing.

High-fiving each other, they went about their cacophonous routines.


	8. Stupidity: Do Not Want

Ahahahaha sorry for the extended absence. I have a terrible attention span these days.

Case and point, within the time it took me to write this chapter, I spent over an hour of it checking Memebase, Facebook, and cleaning my nails. And also annoying my cat.

And since I misplaced my little booky thing where I wrote the poem, I'mma wing it, because I am honestly too lazy to look it up myself for the umpteenth time.

Happy reading~

* * *

><p>"Argh!" Alfred yelled, bored with his task.<p>

"Americans were never good pirates!" Alexei called.

"I don't care. And why do you trust me in your master's bedroom? I mean, seriously, a lot of Americans are huge-ass perverts."

"So is the rest of the world."

Alfred grumbled, going back to organizing and reorganizing the same shelf, trying to ignore the fact that a servant will come in a demand that he arrange her panty drawer.

"If you know we are going to ask for it, why are you not doing it? Trust us, she is not one known for caring about that."

"Says the guy who gets whipped for talking," the American yelled. "Besides. It's eight already. I'm going to sleep."

"You are pathetic."

"SO IS YOUR GOVERNMENT."

Alfred stormed down the stairs and into his room. Slamming the door, he wondered for a moment if he could smell the steam coming out of his ears.

"Steam has no scent, Mr. America. Your ears are another story."

He merely glared at the door, cursing his mumbled curses and the house's paper-thin walls.

The servants ignored the rather loud swears from his room, and instead went to finish up both their and his tasks. Artern sighed when he took in the sorry sight of his mistress's bedroom, with nearly everything completely out of place. Do Americans have no sense of organization? Wasn't playing Tetris and other stupid mindless video games supposed to help with spatial reasoning? And timing? After all, it was only five o'clock.

"So, on tomorrow's agenda, providing the storm eases a little more, is… walking Mr. Jones down the street to the airport, cleaning the rest of house, and then go over the foolish Communist base and politely ask for our master back."

"Sounds good to me," Alexei murmured.

"Wait! You knew the entire time where she was? And you didn't tell me?" The American shouted, tearing open the door.

"Please be more careful in your haste. And yes, we knew where she was. She goes over there every few weeks to play poker. Why she is there now, we have no idea."

"Well then let's go!" Alfred said with a grin, grabbing his coat.

"Why?"

He stopped, blinking. "Uh, so we can like go save her and stuff? You know, the entire thing I was awesomely planning so I could be a hero and stuff? You know, that stuff?"

"Why? She is not in danger. She funds them. Only you can never find it on her tax return."

"They have tax returns here?"

"Of course not, who do you take us for, you?"

"As a democracy, yes," Alfred mumbled.

"You would suck at poker. Now go to bed. You have the meeting in a few days."

"Yeah, sure mom." He glared at them again, skulking up the stairs.

The next morning, they dragged Alfred to the airport; hastily scrapped up money for a ticket- their mistress was never keen on keeping track of finances- and threw him through the doors of the nearest terminal.

"Have a nice trip!"

"Stay away from strangers!"

"Never come back!"

"It was a- wait, what?"

"Kidding."

Alfred didn't even bother narrowing his eyes; his ability to glare had faded as he got more and more angry about their ability to piss him off.

"Yeah. Bye."

The servants high fived each other again and skipped back to the house, intent on making the house as spotless as possible in case their mistress really was playing poker and had lost.

Alfred went through the customary baggage check and security checkpoints, surprised at how lax it was. Where were the kids being molested by the TSA? And what about toe nail clippers? They were dangerous items! They should be confiscated! There was a man carrying a dull, rusted battle knife with the tip bent and the blade only halfway attached to its handle. He could kill something with that! Like a bug!

Appalled, he continued on, shaking his head at the most disgusting security measures he had ever seen in the past four months. He focused his complaints only on that, completely unaware of the dozen or so homeless people littered around the airport, sleeping in ratty old clothes with newspaper for blankets.

It was a wonder people didn't all live in his country. Nobody got hurt in his country, with all the tightwad TSA officers who take out their anger over the lack of being a police officer on the poor travelers. And the actual police officers who mace innocent, corralled women in the face because they're on the wrong side of the protest line- the peaceful, non-threatening side. They could have been terrorists!

Alfred continued to list ways how his country's security and police were infinitely better than everyone else's. His people are safe! Even the ones that 'immigrated' to his country. Yep, border-hopping criminals that break at least five laws are still protected by his wonderful police force!

Maybe he should rethink how to run his country…

* * *

><p>Yeah, if you can't tell, I'm not very proud to be a citizen of the U.S.A. I want to move to Canada. Or England. Or anywhere that actually has an official language (that I speak.)<p> 


End file.
